THE LATE LAMENTED: 



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THREE ACTS 



AV. \V. HOWE. 



NEW OJtLEANS: 

CI.AKK i- HOFELINE, BOOK PRINTERS, 112 GKAVIER STREKT. 

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THE LATE LAMENTED: 



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THREE ACTS 



W. AV. HOAVi:. 



•^V OF COA/>- 



NEW O It LEANS: 

CLAKK & HOFELINE, BOOK PEINTEBS, 112 GRAAaEK* STREET. 

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EXTKRKl) ArcilRl'IMi Til THK AcT UK CoXliHKSS IX THE YKAI! 187S, nV 

M'lLLIAM W. HOWK, 

IN I'liK OFrirr, 111- THK LiiiiiAinAN III- (Aim:i:k.ss at Wasiiixtiin. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



COLONEL BILLINGTOX, 
MR>S. DORA BILLLNTGTON, 
JOHN POOLE, 
JAMES BARBER, 
MARY SULLIVAN. 



Scene. — A Country Seat on the Hudson. May, 1865. 



No-E. — The stuileut of Freurh literature will ob.<erve that the p tut-iiial incident nf 
this little sketch is suggested by 0>:'tnve Feuillefs L' Urnc. 



THE LATE LAMENTED. 



ACT FIRST. 



Scene I. — The villa on the left. Mary is seated on a garden chair arranging 
flowers in a vase. 

Enter John Poole, the gardener, bringing more flowers. 

John. Good morning, Mary; here are some more flowers for 
the breakfast table ; and here is one for you. 

Mary. Thank you, sir ; and what am I to do with it ? 

John. Why, wear it in your pretty hair, of course — It's a sprier 
of crape myrtle, the first of the season. Don't you remember that 
the Colonel brought the plant from Natchez ? 

Mary. I'd rather you'd given me a piece of crape. 

John. And why ? 

Mary. And why ? And why ? Are your wits as dull as your 
hoe ? Haven't you any feelings ? Why don't you be like one of 
your own cabbages, and have a heart? Ycfti know very well, why. 
Haven't you been gardener on this place for six months ? Didn't 
you come here with Col. Billington 'when he married his wife, the 
young and lovely widow of Major Bagatelle? And wasn't Major 
Bagatelle killed at the battle of Pea Ridge, in Arkansas, and wasn't 
his orderly killed too ? 

John. Well ? 

Mary. Well indeed — well for you perhaps — or you'd never have 
been here at this pretty place. And who was that orderly, that 
brave, noble, high private? James Barber, who was gardener on the 
next place in Major Bagatelle's time, and went to the war and got 
into the fight at Pea Ridge. 



6 THE LATE LAMENTED. [Act I. 

John, (aside.) Just tlie place for a gardeuer to come up to the 
scratch. 

Mary. And got killed ; and after what passed between him and 
rae when he went away, do you expect me to wear pink flowers for 
you ? Oh, he was a man ! 

John. Well he may have been a man. By his name I'd guess 
so; but, judging by his work, he wasn't much of a gardener. 

Mary. And who said he was ? I said he was a man ! 

John. And from all accounts he was a pretty good drinkist, and 
had no more fancy for watering his liquor than he had for watering 
his plants. The finest flowers he ever raised, they say, were those 
that bloomed on his face. \_Exit. 

Mary. Oh, dear me, what fools men are ! Here is John Poole, 
good-looking, good-natured, has a nice place, wants to get married, 
wants to marry me, and the only way he can find to court me is to 
abuse poor James Barber! Perhaps it's just as well that men don't 
know us as we know ourselves. If they did, oh my ! 

Enter Col. Billington. 

Good morning, sir. 

Billington. Good morning, Mary. {Apart.) Well I've had 
a splendid ride this morning. The chesnut mare is fine — and she 
ought to be, daughter of Lexington, And she is rather amiable for 
one of her sex. (Looks at his watch.) Nine o'clock. (To Mary.) 
Has Mrs. Billington rung for you yet ? 

Mary. Oh, no, sir, madam isn't up yet. I s'pose she was tired 
with working in the pavK yesterday. 

Billington. Working in the park ? 

Mary. Well, yes, the artist came to sot up the little monument ; 
and, as poor James Barber used to say, she was " bossing the job." 

Billington. Monument? What monument? 

Mary. Perhaps, sir, you'd like to see it. It's beautiful. 



Scene J.] the late lamented. 7 

BiLLTNGTON. But what is it, and why is it ? 

Mary. Why, Madam has been setting up a funereal urn, I think 
she calls it to the uiemory of the Late Lamented, as she calls him. 

BllLlNGTON. The who? 

Maey. The Late Lamented, Major Bagatelle, to be sure, and 
what with worrying over the urn, and weeping over the dead, it's 
DO wonder she sleeps late. 

BiLLlNGTON. Perhaps I'd better look at this urn. (Turns 

aicay but comes hack.^ 

Mary. You don't look well, sir. Beg your pardon, sir — are 
you ailing ? 

BiLLlNGTON. Oh no, of course not — I am as gay as a Wall 
street bear in a panic. Who wouldn't be gay ? Ha, ha, just so ! 
I'm as gay as an American Comedy, — or as a fashionable under- 
taker at a first-class funeral. Why not ? I am young, and healthy 
I have a beautiful wife, and this villa on the Hudson, which is not 
only very pretty but is to be further embellished with a monument 
to the memory of the Late Lamented, my predecessor. See here, 
Mary, you have been Madam's maid for five years, you have noticed 
things here for six months past, you knew Major Bagatelle of 
course — well — what sort of a creature was he? Was he an arch- 
angel ? Was he a first-class seraph ? Was he every way so much 
better than I can ever hope to be ? 

Mary. Why, sir, to tell the tiuth, it itn't for me to make com- 
parisons. He was veiy much thought of. You might know that if 
you'd take the trouble to look at the monument, and the lines that 
Madam has had cut on it. 

BiLLlNGTON, {apmi.) It passes comprehension — meeting my 
lovely wife accidentally, marrying her hastily under peculiar circum- 
stances in the midst of the last campaign of the war, the courtship 
carried on by my sister, her schoolmate, rather than by my busy 
self; separated from my bride at the altar, for weeks I have lavished 
on Dora every delicate attention, every minute tenderness that I 



8 THE LATE LAMENTED. [Act I. 

dared to ofiFer and all in vain. She could oot be colder if she had 
been made by one of these modern Ice Machines. Having no 
time to woo her before marriage, I began to woo her as soon as I 

had placed the wedding ring upon her finger. In vain in vain ! I 

might as well woo the Cardiff Giant. I beg pardon — the Greek 
Slave. ( Turning to Mary) Of course my girl — you don't expect me 

to go into details in such a matter — but at least let me hope that 

you are not fashioned of the same flint as your mistress, — here is 
poor John Poole the gardener, think to what a state you have re- 
duced him with your ways and your manners. When I first saw him 
this morning he told me of his real afi"ection for you, and of your 
disdain for him, and as he spoke he actually wept like a a 

Mary. A sprinkling pot, I s'pose. 

BiLLiNGTON. I give you my word — if he goes on in this way the 
only use we can make of him will be to plant him out as a weeping 
willow. Come, Mary, he has asked me to intercede — can't you love 
him a little ? — {In his earnestness, Billington lays one hand on her 
shoulder and with the other chucks her under the chin.) 

He is a fine honest fellow, a good gardener, even a fair botanist, 
he gets large wages and lays them up. Marry him ; help him ; some 
day he will rise in the world as Americans are apt to do. Come 
Mary, can't you fancy him a little % 

Mary, {drawing off.) Ah, sir, even a little would be too much 
for a heart in which reigns the memory of the late lamented James 
Barber. 

Billington. What? You have a L'ate Lamented, too ? Bar- 
ber — Barber — the name is familiar. He was gardener about here 
before the war, and went ofi" as orderly to Major Bagatelle. 

Mary. The same, sir. The Major, they tell me, was a Division 
Quartermaster. Here is a piece from the village paper that I shall 
always keep. It tells about the tragedy. {She reads from a scrap 

of newspaper.) 

" Major Bagatelle was gallantly endeavoring to place his wagon 
train and surplus mules in a place of safety at the right and rear of 



Scene 11.] the late lamented. 9 

his division, when a stray shell exploded uear him, and a fragment 
struck him in the small of the back. The wound was not at first 
thought dangerous, but the genial habits of the Major were adverse 
to the progress of cure." 

BiLLlNGTON. Genial habits, just so. 

Mary. " He died on the third day, and in the rapid movement 
of our troops towards Helena, was buried so hastily that his grave 
will not probably be ever identified. His orderly, James Barber, 
in the confusion produced among the animals by the explosion of 
the fiery missile, was kicked in the head by a fractious mule. His 
scull was instantly shattered, and he died that night. His hasty 
grave will also remain unknown till the last trump be sounded. 
Private Barber was well known in our village. He had his faults, 
who has not ? He was, perhaps, a little too fond of draw-poker 
and commissary whisky, and had the disdain of an enthusiast for 
steady work ; but he had a good heart, and will be lamented by his 
old fi'iends, who will be the last to draw his frailties from their dread 
abode." 

Ah, sir, isn't that beautifully written ? And wasn't James a 
hero? Why, you might have known he was to hear him talk 
before he went away. And couldn't he talk ? Oh, sir, we shall 
never see his like again. 

BiLLlNGToN, (aside). I should hope not. Well, Mary, it 
seems that John Poole and myself are in the same boat. What 
would you think of our hanging ourselves side by side in the con- 
servatory ? Do you think that we would stand a chance, then, to 
become Late Lamented in our turn ? There, don't cry, Mary, for if 
you do I shall be inclined to laugh, and that would be very im- 
proper under the circumstances. (He turns to walk away.) 

Mary, (dryly). Will you not look at the monument, sir ? 

BiLLlNGTON. Bye and bye. I may see it in walking up and 
down the lawn. 

\_Exit Mary hy the right. Billington hy the left. 



Scene II. — Another part of the lawn. — Billington solus. 
Billington. It is a lovely morning ; the air is balmy as a dream 



10 THE LATE LAMENTED. [Act II. 

of love ; the birds are wooing each other with flash of feather and 
burst of song ; the flowers welcome the bees to their sweet embrace. 
On such a morning even the coldest heart might be a little warmed. 

I'll go to Dora and make one more eff"ort to win her obdurate 

Enter James Barber at left, shabby, red nosed, dressed like a tramp. 

Well, sir, and what will you have, ? 

Barber. Why, if you really wish to know, I should say a 
whisky cocktail would about fill the bill after a dusky walk on a 
pretty hot morning. 

BiLLiNGTON. Who are you ? 

Barber. My name is James Barber, I used to 

Enter Mary. 

Mary. James Barber ! Oh-o-oo. [Faints, enter John Poole, 
who catches her. 

Poole. James Barber ! 

Barber. Yes, — James Barber — is there anything wond<erful 
about the name of James Barber ? Why, you look as much aston- 
ished as if I had told you my name was Horace Grreeley ! 

tableau. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene L — Another part of the lawn. 

BiLLlNGTON, (solus.) Fortunately John Poole and the cook will 
keep Mary under a proper process of restoration until I can see this 
fellow Barber and find out what his resurrection from the dead 
means. Let me think. [ Walks up and down a moment, ivhen 
enters John Poole with a letter. 

John. The letter was marked immediate, and the Postmaster 
sent it up by the baker. 



Scene J.] the late lamented. 11 

BiLLiNGTON. Thank you, and give this to the baker. (^Hand- 
ing him some postal currency. Exit John.') And what is this 
very important letter ? Office Metropolitan Police, New York. 
Barber, bummer ? Oh, ho ! Well, really. Barber, that's very 
good, (^glancing thro the letter and putting it in his pocket) I had 
a dim idea, and I am exceedingly obliged to you for coming just in 
time ; and now, as the cheerful Hamlet says, " to my lady's 
chamber." 

Scene II. — Mrs. BilUngton' s Boudoir. 

Mrs. BiLLlNGTON. And so the days go on — go on. Ah, 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, what a poet you were, and how you 
describe the miseries of a woman's heart. 

Enter Billington. 

BiLLlNGTON. Why, Dora, dear, you look charmingly this 
morning. 

Mrs. Billington. Thanks ; I am sorry I cannot return the 
compliment, but I must say I can praise neither your style nor your 
appearance. You burst into my private apartment like a savage, 
with whip and riding boots. May I ask if this is a stable ? 
Believe me, Colonel, there may be reserve and decency even 
between people who are chained together by the fetters of marriage. 

Billington. Upon my word, Dora, you are a little too severe 
in your method. I thought to make myself agreeable by paying 
this very early visit on this very lovely morning. 

Mrs. Billington. And you thought to make yourself agree- 
able, I presume, by embracing my maid under the window this 
very lovely morning. 

Billington. Oh, come now, Dora, what do you mean ? 

Mrs. Billington. I mean that, looking in my glass a moment, 
I saw reflected the scene between Mary and yourself. 

Billington. But, my dear child, you do me wrong. 1 was 
urging Mary to listen to poor John Poole, and if, in my earnestness. 



12 THE LATE LAMENTED. [Act II. 

I chucked her under the chin why, I was merely acting as 

John's attorney in fact. 

Mrs. Billington. Oh, certainly ; and I dare say you would 
like to practice the profession of attorney regularly in that style. 

BiLLiNGTON. Now, darling, don't be jealous. You have too 
much soul and too much sense for that. I did not come here this 
morning to quarrel. I came to tell you — how much I love you. 

Mrs. BiLLiNGTON. Dear me. I was hoping you might have 
come to tell me something at once new and agreeable. 

BiLLiNGTON. I came to tell you how sorry I was you could not 
have been with me in my ride this morning. The river was 
glorious. The land was no less beautiful. Everything was sweet- 
ness and light. I met such a happy little party of young people 
going to some pic-nic — rustics, of course — not quite so elegant as 
you are, Dora ; but they were happy. Each couple seemed 
fortunately mated — neatly dressed — faces radiant — baskets of lunch 
well filled, and I 1 was alone. 

Mrs. BiLLiNGTON. And you had not even a basket of lunch ? 

BiLLiNGTON. I was truly sad, ray loneliness was sincere. Alas, 
I said to myself, I have everything needful for happiness, but one, 
the love of my wife. Ah, Dora, I thought of you, of your beauty, 
of your talents, of your gifts and graces, various and subtle as the 
perfumes of spring, and I could not believe that you would always 
be so strange — so cold. The thought came to me that to-day if I 
were near you there might be in my voice some accent, in my eyes 
some light, — 'perhaps even a tear, — that might touch you. Was I 
wrong ? Tell me, Dora, what can I do to make you love me ? 
(^Catches Ker hand.) 

Dora, (a little moved and then straightening up.) You might, 

as my attorney, interview Mary, and ask her to ask the cook 

whether we are to have any breakfast today. {Exit Billington 

in a rage. Dora hursts into tears, and loalks up and down wringing 
her hands.) Ah, the puzzle of life ! The puzzle of life ! I heard 
a sermon at Newport, once, on the text, "what I would not, that 



Scene JJ.] the late lamented. 13 

I do." Saiut Paul must have been ia a ferainioe frame of mind 
when he said that. (^Goes to the windoiv.) What ? There is my 
husband — poor Theodore — he seems to be excited — he stops — he 
moves on — he is going towards the Monument, — he seizes the urn 

in his arms, — he is coming this way. — Oh, dear (She tcalkg 

up and down. Enter BiUington with the Urn. They look at each 
other with dignity.^ 

BiLLINGTON. Madam, what is this Urn ? 

Dora. This Uru ? 

BiLLINGTON. Yes this Urn ! 

Dora, (Jooking at it with curiosity.) I should think it might be 
marble, 

BiLLINGTON. No jesting, please ; I ask it seriously — what is 
this Urn and what is this inscription on the base, surmounted by 
the letter B. 

Dora. An inscription ! 

BiLLINGTON. Yes, an inscription. (Reads.) 

"TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

A HERO 

WHO HAD BUT ONE FAULT 

AN1> THAT WAS THAT 

HE WAS 

MORTAL." 

What do you think of that? 

Dora. It seems to me rather a pretty idea. 

BiLLINGTON, (loith impatience.) Good Heavens, Dora, do you 
think my good nature is inexhaustible? Do you wish to sting me 
into craziness with your caprices ? Why, see — we have been mar- 
ried half a year, and if we were strangers at a way -side inn we could 
not be more thoroughly separated. And more than that, I am 
worse off than a stranger, for a stranger would be neither pained by 



14 THE LATE LAMENTED. [Act II. 

your indifference nor tantalized by your whims. Shall we never 

never 

Dora. If I interrupt you, Colonel, it is to save you from being 
ungenerous, and that I am sure you would not wish to be. When 
you did me the honor to ask for my hand, your sister acting — to 
use your happy phrase — as your attorney, did I make any mystery 
of my heart? The loss of the distinguished soldier who had been 
my husband, the painful circumstances of his death, had left a cloud 
on my memory which refused to fade away. I did not conceal the 
fact. I claimed from your sister, acting as intermediary, a proper 
respect for the scruples of a grief so legitimate. It was promised. 

BiLLINGTON. Very like — very like — I know my good sister and 
I can fancy the fervor of her vows. And suppose I authorized her 
to make these promises, what is a "proper respect ?" Is it to alien- 
ate us forever ? Four years have elapsed since the loss was suffered. 
Was I wrong to hope that before this time — but, no ; your grief 
grows more eccentric, you nurse it as you would a strange plant ; 
you keep anniversaries ; you compose epitaphs ; you turn the lawn 
into a cemetery. This is not mourning, it is mockery. Do you 
remember the story of Mausoleus, King of Crete ? You may read 
it in the New American Cyclopaedia. When he died, and his re- 
mains had been properly cremated, his surviving spouse swallowed 
the ashes, well flavored vsrith wine, and so made an end of the mat- 
ter ; and, so far as I can discover, never alluded to the subject again. 
The story is said to be a true one, though there may have been some 
Mye' about the ashes. 

Dora. Indeed, your sudden levity, sir, is rather brutal. And 
you would do well to read up in Ancient History a little. The 
unfortunate queen died of grief after a year of mourning. 

BiLLINGTON. So much the better. Why not imitate her 
example and die of grief, and so turn me into perfect ridicule ? 

Dora. Ah! ridicule! that's the trouble, is it ? One's masculine 
vanity may suffer 



Scene II.] the late lamented. 15 

BiLLlNGTON. And why not ? A man may be wounded in 
many ways. One bullet may hit his heart, another, his creat toe. 
Neither is pleasant. Do you wish to make me absurd? If I am 
n5ade ridiculous, can my wife escape a similar fate? Do you suppose 
the equivocal relation in which we live escapes the notice of those 
useful persons we hire as domestic servants? Do you suppose they 
don't tell the butcher an<l the baker and the candlestick maker ? 
By Jove, madam, I wish you would o;ive me a rival of flesh and 
blood. But the one you favor me with has an advantage 

Dora. How? 

BiLLiNGTON. He is dead — and therefore I cannot kill him ! 

Dora. Enough. When a woman finds herself the object of a 
fury which vibrates between the coarsest anger and the coldest cyn- 
icism, the only part left for her to play is silence. Pray, sir, if you 
prate of murder, kill me ! 

BiLLlNGTON. Thank you, I am not an Othello, either by " race, 
color or previous condition." I have never been much of a lady- 
killer, as you know. But one thing is certain. I have no fancy 
for this style of matrimony. It's like trying to sail upon 

" a painted ship 

Upon a painted ocean." 

Nay, more, if our wedded life is to be in the future what it has 
been in the past, it would, perhaps, be well to terminate it, not by 
any "killing," but by a "peaceable secession." 

Dora. I thank you. 

BiLLlNGTON. No thanks are needed. Your mother is still liv- 
ing. Her home offers you a respectable retreat. The moment you 
signify the wish, 

Dora, I signify it now ! 

BiLLlNGTON. So be it. The train will leave at 11:45 ; and 

perhaps you'll be kind enough to take that Urn with you. 

Dora, (seizing the urn.) Ah ! sweet souvenir of my only love ! 
Precious symbol (Enter Mary in terrible excitement.') 



l(i 



THE LATE LAMENTED. 



[Aft II. 



Mary. Oh, Madam, Madam ! 

Dora. Well, what in the world is the matter ? 

Mary. Oh, Madam, Madam ! 

Dora. Why, child, can't you speak? 

BiLLlNGTON. Or you might call up the coachman and let him 
swear a little. He can do justice to any subject. 

Mary. Oh, Madam, James Barber has returned ! 

Doha. James Barber, the Major's orderly ! Why, he is dead. 

Mary. No, no, he survived he returned to tell the tale. 

At least, he says so, and, though he's the biggest liar I ever knew, 
I am sure he tells the truth this time ! 

Dora. It's incredible. You say he's there ? 

BiLLINGTON, {dryly. ^ Some impostor, probably. 

Mary. Impostor ! Perhaps I don't know James Barber ! Why, 
I know every blossuni on his nose. He is following me up stairs. 
He wishes to see you. Madam 

Dora. Let hiui come iu. (^Euter Barber. Col. B. seats him- 
self apart.) Is it possible, — poor James, — is it you ? 

James. Jes' so, ma'am. It's I, me, and myself, thank the 

Lord! 

Dora. He is weary, faint ; give him a chair, Mary. 

James. I thank you kindly, Mrs. Bagatelle. 

Dora, (aside to Mary.) Mrs. Bagatelle ! He does not know 

hush Mary. And whence have you come, James ? 

James. From Arizona — from among the Apache Indians. 

Dora. Indeed ! And how have you made this immense 
journey? 

James. On foot, mem. 

BiLLINGTON, (aside.) " Oh, Walker ! " 



Scene II. '] the late lamented. 17 

Dora. Ah ! How you must have suflPered ? 

James. I should rather think I had, especially from thirst. 

Dora. Surely, surely. Mary bring that decanter of Tokay and 
a box of Albert biscuit. [Barber begins to fill himself with wine 
and biacuits.) Ah, you feel better now ? 

James. A little better, a little better. 

Dora. He almost smiles, Mary. 

BiLLTNGTON. It isn't the first time. 

Dora. Do not hesitate, James. {He makes another sharp 
attach on the lunch.) I do not mean to eat only, and to drink, but 
to tell me the sad, sad story of your adventures and your escape. 

James. Well, if you order me to, 

BiLLiNGTON. If you order me ! Come, Barber, go on with 
your story, and go straight, if po.ssible. 

James, (to Mary.) Who is this party who speaks so peart ? 

Mary, (to James.) Oh, nobody. A neighbor. 

James, (to himself.) He's a neighbor I don't like. (Aloud.) 
Well, to perseed. At the battle of Pea Ridge, Arkansaw, as you 
may remember, the Major and I fought like heroes in defense of 
the wagoD train, and we saved it. Not a mule was lost, not a bale 
of hay. I am told that General Curtis would have had my name 
mentioned in general orders for this, except that he didn't know my 
name, and, as you will see, never had a chance to find it out. 

Dora. x\h, hero ! 

^James. While executing prodigies of valor, I was struck down 
by a fragment of a shell. 

BiLLlNGTON. Are you sure ? 

Jaems. Well, it may have been a mule's hoof There's pre- 
cious little difference, you bet. And I was left for dead. The 
train moved on, and, as the newspapers say, the tide of battle rolled 
to another part of the tented field. (Takes tnore wine.) 



18 



THE LATE LAMENTED. 



[Act III. 



BiLLiNGTON, (aside.) Tented field is good. The excitement 
of such a battle would be in-tents, I suppose. 

James. I was left alone, and in five minutes was captured by a 
company of Pike's Confederate Indians, and taken to the enemies' 
rear. Next day the noble red men deserted Mr. Pike, and went off 
to the Choctaw Nation, and took me alonj^-. They found they 
hadn't much use for me, and I escaped pretty easy towards the 
Plains, and thought to get into New Mexico or North Texas, and 
go across the Rio Grande, you know. {Takes another drink, and 
fills ]m mouth with biscuit. 

BiLLiNGTON, (aside.) Well, yes; we think we know. 

Dora. What patriotism ! 

Mary, (aside.) Now I know what patriotism is! He just 
hungers and thirsts after it. 

James. Well 1 was took again, by a wandering band of 

Indians, from the Plains. I tell you that was a fight. The arrows 
just flew around me like hail. (Takes some more ivine.) 

BiLLiNGTON. In point of fact the hero had an arrow escape ! 

James. And these cussed Injuns kep' me with them till about 
two months ago, when they let me off, as I'll show you in a minute. 
I got to Santa Fe, and so along home. 

Dora. And the— — the Major 

James. Ah, you should have seen him, how he fit in that 
battle. (Hesitates., and takes another drink,) 

Dora. Proceed — proceed, James , I must know every terrible 
detail, even to the mortal blow t 

James. The mortal blow? Why, the Major wasn't killed. 
Dora. What ? 
Mary. Wh-at ? 
BiLLiNGTON. Good Heavens ! 

Dora falls in Mary's arms. 
TABLEAU. 



^cene J.] the late lamented. 19 

ACT THIRD. 

ScKNE I. — 'I he Laiim. Billington solus. 

BiLLlNGTON. This is an eventful morning indeed. It is n't too 
late for a late breakfast yet — and we have had excitements enough 
to last an ordinary household for a year. 

Enter Mary. 

Well, Mary, has Mrs. Billington so far recovered as to be able to 
hear the rest of your gallant Barber's story ? 

Mary. She has just sent me, sir, to ask you to bring him into 
the library. 

Billington. Very good, and suppose you bring John Poole, 
who, I dare say, will not object to come. 

Mary. Yes, sir. [^Exeunt, in opposite directions. 

Scene II. — The Library. [Mrs. B., Mary and John enter and take proper 
places. Then enter Col. B., and J. Barber.) 

Dora, {feebly.) I beg you, James Barber, to proceed with 
your extraordinary story. 

James. It is true, mem, as was reported by the papers, that the 
Major was hit by a fragment of a shell. It seemed to be a kind of 
stray shot from a piece that was elevated too much, and it come 
way over where our train was. The Major was knocked over, and I 
s'posed he was killed, and so did the rest, maybe. But when I was 
took by the Indians on the Plains, who should I find there, a cap- 
tive also, but the Major. He had been taken about the time he 
come to on the battle field, by the Coufeds, and carried off to Tyler, 
Texas, where they had a military prison in the pine woods. From 
there he tried to escape up towards the northwest, and got picked 
up by the same tribe as I was. 

Dora. And then, 



20 



THE LATE LAMENTED. 



[Act III. 



James. Well, all is he's there. They have got him, and 

they make a kind of servant of him. 

Dora. Gracious Heaven ! 

James. They haven't heard of the Fifteenth Amendment down 
there. But there's a way to get him home. 

Dora. How oh how ? 

James. Well, it's no use to send troops or anything of that 
kind — You might as well send them to chase the shad in the North 
River. But, you see, 1 know those red skins, they let me go ex- 
pressly at the Major's request, to see if I couldn't get somebody to 
ransom him. And they said that they'd let the Major go if his 
people would send me with so much powder, and so many blankets, 
and so much whisky, and so much money ; and the money must be 
gold, so they can trade with the Mexicans, who don't think so very 
much of rag currency. 

Dora. And how much will this ransom be? 

James. Well, the very least I can do it for is ten thousand 
dollars, gold — and that will cost at present rates about fifteen 
thousand dollars currency, 

Dora. Fifteen thousand dollars, — alas, I have almost no money 
of my own. Major Bagatelle spent my fortune, soon after my 
marriage 

BiLLlNGTON, (aside.~) That's the reason the newspaper called 
Mm "a man of genial habits." 

Dora. My poor mother also has only an annuity and no capital. 
No, my good James, we must send this word to the Major. I will 
live with the most painful economy ; my mother I hope will join 
me in doing the same. I will save as much as I can, and so will 
she. I will teach, I will sew. I will go as companion to some old 

lady ; or, better yet, I will get employment as laundress ; 1 will 

live on bread and water and in a few years if I live 1 

may lay up enough 



Scene II. '] the late lamented. 21 

BiLLiNGTON, {coming forward^ No madam no a 



woman who has been though but nominally my wife, shall never be 
exposed to privations which I can prevent. I will lend the fifteen 

thousand dollars, not to you, for yoa would be too proud to 

accept the loan, — but to Major Bagatelle, whose unfortunate condi- 
tion permits me to take this liberty. 

Barber. Well, now, Colonel, you're a brick. I call that doing 
things brown on both sides ! 

Dora. Ah, Colonel, how can I thank you for such magnanimity 
-such such Mary, take Jaraes Barber down to his break- 



fast. You may then return. 

Barber. Colonel, you're a trump, Al, clipper-built and copper 
fastened. 

BiLLiNGTON. And you mix your metaphors a little. 

Barber. But not my liquor I'm going to drink your 

health, Colonel, in some more of the same. \_Exeunt Mary and 
Bavher.'\ 

Dora. This noble 2onduct touches me very closely. I am only 
afraid that j'our generosity may put you to inconvenience 

Billington. Not at all. The future to which I shall devote 
myself, will easily permit such a modest sacrifice. 

D(tRA. What future? 

Billington. Ah, madam, when General Lafayette paid 

his vii^it to this country, in 1824, and was introduced in the Ameri- 
can manner to about a million pjople, he would say to each man 

that was presented " My dear sir, are you married ? " If the 

reply was yes, the Marquis would smile, and say, " Happy man." 
If the reply was no, he smiled, and said, •' Lucky Dog !'' My 
future is that of a Lucky Dog. Your husband, being still alive, 
your marriage with me is a mere nullity. My future is that of a 
single man. I frankly confess that I do not care to remain in this 
country. Our relations to each oth-T have been too strange and too 
sad. I could never_^meet 'you without sorrow, nor would scan- 



22 



THE LATE LAMENTED. 



[Act III. 



Hal forget to attack us. Fortunately, the war in Mexico offers me a 
career where my military experience may be of some use to the 
cause of Republican liberty. (Enter Mary.) Allow me to step 
into the library a momont to write a check for the sum of money of 
which we were speaking. 

Dora. If you please. (Exit Col. B.) Well Mary 



-you- 
Well, Madam. 
You see? I am overcome with joy. 



(Bumfs into 



And so am I. (Bursts into tears.) 
I weep, child, because, because- 



-in the dialect of 



Mary. 

Dora. 

tears. ) 

Mary. 

Dora. 

woman, all feelings are expressed by tears. 

Mary. And I am weeping, madam ; but I'm bound to say it 
isn't for joy. 

Dora. What ? When a kind Providence has sent back James 
Barber ? 

Mary. Providence is a little too kind, this time. Ah, madam, 
how that fellow was improved by being dead ! I dressed his image 
up with all kinds of virtues just to tease John Poole, 

Dora. Indeed ? Then you have been coquetting. 

Mary, f'm afraid so. The worst of it was that I talked about 
Barber until I really began to believe my own stories. And when 
he came back so suddenly this morning, 1 was almost glad to see 
him. I thought, may be, the war might have done him good. 
He's worse than ever. Did you notice him when he came in? He 
was half tipsy then, and what with the wine you gave him he is 
rolling about like a Haverstraw sloop in a squall ; and is telling 
John Poole such lies about the battle of Pea Ridge as make the 
chills run down my back. Ah, madam, if Major BiigateUe has 
gone on like his orderly, we both have a heavenly time before us. 

Dora. I do not think the Major ever showed any such evil 
tendencies as James Barber 



Scene J.] the late lamented: 23 

Mary. Oh no of course not, only he was very attentive 

to every woman except his lawful wife. 

Dora. Ah? 

Mary. And he was a desperate gambler. 

Dora. Indeed! 

Mary. Ai;d he was much too fond of wine. 

Dora. Is it so? I had forgotten. 

Mary. And he treated you most cruelly. 

Dora. Why, I do remember that he was a little obstinate. 

Mary. As obstinate as a pig. 

Dora. He was, perhaps in appearance, a little hard 

towards me sometimes. 

Mary. As hard as a flint. 

Dora, (excitedly.) Very good, very good, missy, and suppose 

he was, what of it. Suppose you prove to me, alas too clearly, that 
the Major was a wretch and a fraud. Suppose you go further and 
prove, what you evidently desire to do, that Colonel Billington has 
more merit in his little finger than Major Bagatelle ever had from 

the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, what good can 

result ? Can that unravel this terrible complication ? Can that 
deliver me from this fearful snare? You will drive me crazy. Gro 
away, please; leave me alone, (She perceives Col. B., wJio enters 
quietly.) Ah sir, you were there ? You heard me ? 

Billington. No, not precisely. I was coming in as you raised 
your voice, and caught a few words which you doubtless uttered in 
a moment of excitement, and will retract when you become a little 
calm. 

Dora, (approaching liim in a humhle manner). No, I will re- 
tract nothing. Let the truth be told. I make my humble confes- 
sion. You have hardly known me. Let me tell you about myself. 
I have been a spoiled child from my cradle. I was spoiled in the 



24 THE LATE LAMENTED. [Act III. 

nursery. I was spoiled at Madame Millefleur's school, where all 
the humanities were advertised, but where I was nurtured chiefly 
on confectionery and novels. I was spoiled in society, where I was 
allowed to run wild at seventeen. My imagination, — perhaps you 
would say my caprice, — was developed at the expense of every other 
faculty of body and mind. I married Major Bagatelle. He was 
very handsome. I thought his soul must be as beautiful as his face. 
I thought I loved him. I opened my heart to him as frankly as a 
flower opens to the sun. I gave myself to him without reserve, 
staking my whole life on that single card. I lost. I was deceived. 
He was faithless, and shallow. That he squandered my fortune was 
nothing, but that he scorned my love, so lavished on him, was ter- 
rible. I lesolved that I would never be so rash again. When I 
married you I tried the opposite course. I held myself aloof. I 
made myself like marble. You were astonished and puzzled. Ah, 
if you could have known how hard was the part I was playing. 

Believe me, many times, this morning, when you came in, and 

spoke so kindly, I felt a wild desire to fling my arms around your 
neck, and confess that I was only playing a part. But stdl I feared 
for the result, having been once deluded. Beside, we all have a 
little foolish pride, and do not like to change a course and so confess 

an error. And you were a little to blame. You were shall I 

say it ? too amiable, too reserved, too easily discouraged and 

rebuffed. A woman loves to feel the strong hand of power laid on 
her. She loves to kiss the rod. Why were you not a little more of 

a Turk ? What shall I say more? I am in a sad plight. Is 

that a reason why you should at once abandon me without a word 
of regret for yourself or compassion for me ? Is there no hope for 

me? You speak of going to Mexico take me with you! I will 

follow you to the end of the world. We were married in good 
faith. We love each other dearly, and who shall put us asunder ? 

Col. BillINGTON. {Looks at Iter a moment, then gravely 

takes the Urn from the table and approaches the tvindoio.) 

Heads ! (throics the Urn out.) Madam, if I had the right I 

would certainly take you to Mexico, or better yet, I would remain 

.here with vou on the Hudson. Nothinsr could be more charmiua-. 



Scene JJ.] the late lamexted. 25 

but the law has an obstinate spite against bigamists, and it really seems 

that unless some special stroke of fortune comes to our help 

(enter John Poole ) Well, what is it ? 

John Poole. You dropped this letter, sir, and as it was marked 
" Official," I brought it in. 

BiLLiNGTON. Thank you. It comes just in time. Let me 
read it again, and this time aloud. (Reads.) 

Office Board of Metropolitan Police, 

New York, May 25, 1865. 

Dear Sir — A man named James Barber, a deserter and bounty- 
jumper is on his way to your place and may attempt to obtain 
money from you by false pretenses. His plan as revealed to a fello'"- 
lodger at the station house and communicated to this office through 
our detective force, seems to be to pretend that the late Major Baga- 
telle is still living, and to take charge of funds for his ransom from 
captivity among the Indians. I am directed by the Superintend- 
ent to inform you of these facts. A special officer will come up by 
the next train to arrest Barber. 

I am, sir. 

Very respectfully. 

Your ob't. ser't., 
Peter Hawley, Chief Clerk. 

John, see that the scoundrel is secured. 

John. He has secured himself, sir; that wine put him sound 
asleep. 

BiLLINGTON, (apart to Dora.) And now, dear heart, it will not 
be necessary for us to go to Mexico. We will remain here, will we 
not? 

Dora. Ah, yes. 

John, (apart to Mai-y.) I need'nt be jealous of James Barber 
now, Mary ? 

Mary. I think not. 

Dora. And tell me, dearest, did you receive and read that letter 
this morning before you came to see me ? 



26 



THE LATE LAMENTED. 



[Act III. 



BiLLiNGTON. I do confess it. 

Dora. And you knew Barber's story was false? 

Bll.LlNOTON. I fear I did. 

D(jRA. Well, you have forgiven me, I suppo-e I must recipro> 
cute. Nnv, more, I will ask you to walk in to breakfast. 

[the end.] 




.IBRARY OF CONGRESS 



017 400 584 9 m 

' ^' 



